Standoff
by Double Dog
Summary: Wilson finds himself in for a very rough time at a convenience store, and it's all House's fault. Rated for violence and language.Last chapter up. Many thanks for all the kind words and encouragement this was my firstever multichaptered story, and I'm
1. Chapter 1

**Standoff**

Wilson lay with his face pressed to the cold linoleum and thought how sad it was that a WaWa, _a convenience store_, for God's sake, would have a cleaner floor than House's apartment. That wasn't his most pressing concern, though. If he really wanted to think about something more urgent, he'd consider how he was going to die here, bleeding to death alongside the two people he'd come to think of as Pizza Woman and Chip Boy. Those had been the items in their hands before the Law of _Really_ Bad Timing had caught up with them all.

His unintended companions appeared to be dead. Pizza Woman had been shot three times, two of the bullets literally passing through the Tombstone-brand frozen pizza she'd clutched to her chest (_and how fucking ironic is that?_ James wondered). Chip Boy had only been hit once, but it must've been somewhere immediately vital because the kid hadn't moved since. Wilson felt badly about the teenager and woman, but at the moment he felt much worse about himself.

He'd been shot twice, the first bullet punching him hard in the stomach, the second drilling through his right lung, destroying muscle and tissue and bouncing off ribs. (Wilson wasn't on the same level of diagnostic genius as House, but the fact that every short, gasping breath he took hurt like a son-of-a-bitch was a pretty clear sign his lung was severely compromised). His belly felt like it was on fire, and he knew whatever blood not already seeping through his fingers was busy having a party mixer with the septic contents of his gut. The man who had shot them was dead, killed by his own partners after he'd panicked and started blasting away at the helpless customers. _Probably just afraid he'd accidentally shoot them too._

The police negotiators were outside now, trying to persuade the Bad Guys to come out (_with your hands up,_ Wilson thought, and would've laughed if it hadn't hurt so damn much).

He'd been distracted, hadn't noticed the clues, might not have been able to put them together even if he had. The SUV out front, motor running, license plate covered with mud so it was unreadable. The man in the Yankees sweatshirt by the door, hood up even though the June humidity was stifling, one hand holding a walkie-talkie close to his mouth, the other thrust deep into the pouch pocket. The way everyone's eyes (_men in ski masks_) had turned to him when he walked into the robbery already in progess. By then it was too late. He was a doctor, trained to observe. Why hadn't he _seen?_

Beginning to tremble with hypovolemic shock, he was angry that this was it -- dying alone in pools of blood with complete strangers -- Chip Boy, Pizza Woman, and even Dead Bad Guy. They'd be linked in headline tragedy as the lead story on the 10 o'clock news, and wasn't _that_ a great way to go out? He was angry at all he hadn't done today, and wasn't going to get to do tomorrow. Patients would die that he might've saved. No cures for cancer in his lifetime. Everything will end here.

He'll never see House again, and that makes him angriest of all.

At least he hadn't insisted on coming to the store with him tonight. It wasn't much in the long run, but it was enough to give James a tiny measure of peace.

He heard glass shattering somewhere, a dull _whump!_, and then a hissing sound, as if a cobra had suddenly slithered out from under the stacked display of laundry detergent. An acrid stink filled the air.

_Great,_ Wilson thought, _I can't breathe and they're using tear gas. Screwed again._ He tried to lift one of his hands to shield his face and was unsurprised when his arm refused to obey. He felt strangely _wet_, inside and out. _Oh God, this sucks on so many levels._ Black and white spots like animated dominoes were starting to dance in front of his eyes.

He was barely aware that SWAT and EMT teams had stormed in, securing the store. Screaming, crashing, sounds of chaos, and then gentle hands were turning him carefully on his back, slipping an oxygen mask over his face. Someone shouting in his ear to stay with them, to hold on.

His pager went off, vibrating at his belt. Probably House wanting to know why he wasn't back yet.

_Fuck him._ James sank into unconsciousness, still angry. _Next time he can make his own damn beer run._

fin


	2. Chapter 2

Standoff (2)

Wilson still wasn't back.

House had finished the last beer, considered starting on the Scotch, thought about heating up the leftover pizza. In the end he'd decided to wait for James's return. Except James hadn't returned. A vague apprehension teased at the edges of his mind as he eased himself down on the couch and picked up the phone. He leaned back, punching in Wilson's pager number. Sirens sounded in the distance and he looked up for a moment, frowning, then began channel-surfing with the TV remote. Thumbing open the Vicodin container, he dry-swallowed a pill.

Commercials, infomercials, World Poker Championships, MASH, Bravo, Animal Planet, Iron Chef, The Highlander, breaking local news, The X-Files, Law & Order, Law & Order, Law & ... wait a minute. Go back. Where was it? There. Breaking local news.

House recognized the location -- the convenience store four blocks away. The reporter from the affiliate station was breathless, describing what she kept referring to as the "WaWa Massacre". A horribly botched armed robbery; five dead, one critically wounded, the store clerk missing. The cameraman panned away from her talking head, taking in the store exterior, the SWAT teams, the suits, the yellow police tape, the parking lot ... House leaned closer, squinting. The parking lot. One car in particular caught his attention.

A Volvo S80, bearing the distinctive PPTH parking sticker.

Wilson's car.

All the air rushed out of the room.

"Ah, shit," he breathed. For what seemed an endless moment he simply sat, unable to move. My fault, some part of his mind repeated numbly, my fault. I told him it was his turn.

He forced himself up, reaching for his cane, grabbing his motorcycle jacket.

The phone started ringing and his pager went off simultaneously. He didn't stop for either.

He had to be there. Whether James was alive or (don't say it, don't even think it), he had to be there.

Once upon a time .  
Wilson opened his eyes.  
He was in the convenience store, sitting on the counter. Blood covered the front of his body from his chest down, but the previously agonizing pain was absent. Pizza Woman and Chip Boy were there, sitting on either side of him, their bodies unmarked by any wounds.

"You know, Dr. Wilson, I wish you wouldn't call us that." The young woman was looking at him reproachfully. "We have names."

He stared at her. The Tombstone frozen pizza was in her lap, two neat bullet holes punched through the top half. Bits of icy mozzarella were sticking out of the plastic shrinkwrap. She looked down and the ghost of a smile touched her face.

"I guess it was pretty ironic, wasn't it?"

There was a sound of foil tearing next to him, and Wilson looked to his right. Chip Boy had ripped open his bag of potato chips and was eating them. He grinned at the young doctor. Pizza Woman sighed.

"See, that's not us," she said, and shifted her position to face him a little more directly. "I'm Teresa Pasqale. This is Tyler Orozco." The teenager nodded a greeting, and Teresa Pasqale put out her hand. "Might've been nice if we'd met under less ... traumatic circumstances, Dr. Wilson."

Wilson cautiously shook her hand, but his head was starting to hurt. "How do you ..."

"Know your name? That you're a doctor?" She shrugged. "We're dead. The dead know everything."

Wilson swallowed and looked around. The WaWa store was quiet; the only sound came from Tyler (Chip Boy, his mind insisted) Orozco's snack-crunching. With a slight shock, Wilson realized he couldn't see out the windows. It was like the brightest noonday he'd ever known; the white light of the sun in high summer. We're not in Kansas anymore, he thought, and choked down the hysterical giggle trying to rise in his throat. Teresa was looking at him sympathetically.

"I know, it's pretty weird, isn't it?" She gazed at the glowing windows, seeming not to notice the almost painful radiance. "I was just going to get something quick for dinner, and look what happens ..." She sighed.

Wilson sat still, trying to take everything in. The dead know everything. He frowned. He didn't feel any more intelligent or knowledgeable than the day before. Stiffed even in death, he thought ruefully. Next to him, Tyler snickered. Teresa smiled as she rolled her eyes.

"You're not dead. Did I say that you were? No, I did not. Now please pay attention."

"But ... but ..." Wilson gestured helplessly, and Teresa took pity on him. Her voice was calm and matter-of-fact.

"Your heart stopped in the ambulance. You're eight minutes out from Princeton-Plainsboro, and the EMTs are trying to revive you right now. You're lucky -- Dr. Chase is on duty tonight in the ER and he's the best, but you're still bleeding out faster than they can push it in. You'll use up almost all the A positive in the hospital tonight."

The silence seemed to stretch out forever. Neurons firing in my brain, Wilson thought. Random connections. None of this is real. It was the only thing he could think. He stole a glance at Teresa and caught her looking skyward, as if for help.

"So ... do I die?" he asked slowly.

She looked at him, her expression unreadable.

"Then where are we now? And what are we doing?"

Teresa took a deep breath. "We're here," she said patiently. "We're just ... here. After a while we won't be here. We'll be somewhere else."

Wilson opened his mouth, considered the state of his neurons, and closed it.

"Wait a minute," he said. "If you're here ... where's Dead Bad Guy?"

Ha! Let my neurons explain that!

To his disappointment, Teresa didn't seem at all fazed. "Big Jay?" She shrugged. "Not here."

Not fair, Wilson thought. "Is he ... in Hell?" he asked carefully.

Teresa stared at him for a moment, then threw her head back in an amused laugh.

"Really, Dr. Wilson ... do you think a WaWa convenience store is Heaven?"

Wilson couldn't help it; he grinned back, and surreptitiously stole a glance at her left hand. Ring.

He looked back up. Caught, but all she did was shake her head, slowly. "Dr. House was right about you."

"What?"

"Why don't you tell him how you really feel?" Teresa seemed genuinely curious. "You care about him more than any other person in your life right now; shouldn't you tell him?"

"I don't ..." he started reflexively, and stopped. What was he doing in this conversation?

Teresa nodded. "See," she told Tyler, "men can't talk about this stuff. It's a known fact. They're too busy being ... men." She looked at Wilson again. "You need to tell him," she said, speaking slowly and deliberately as if to a particularly stupid child. "Look at me. Look at us. I didn't tell my husband I loved him this morning. Tyler didn't even speak to his parents."

She was leaning closer, and he caught a faint scent of perfume. Lilacs. "Now we're dead, and we'll never tell anyone anything again. How's that for finality? Is that what you want? This half-life of never telling the whole truth, even when it would do you and everyone else a world of good?"

"Hungry?" Tyler held out a single chip, and Wilson reached for it without looking.

"James." Teresa's eyes were suddenly huge and dark, like pools in forgotten caverns. She spoke, her voice seeming to come from somewhere deep inside his head. "Think. It may not be a pomegranate seed, but it will do in a pinch, yes it will."

He turned his head slowly and looked at Tyler. The boy still held out the chip, but his hand trembled, and he looked ready to cry.

"I miss my mom and dad," he whispered. His eyes were bereft, welling with sadness. James felt a sudden, sharp jab in his chest.

The light outside grew brighter. Teresa's voice, very close to his ear.

"Remember, Dr. Wilson ..."

Darkness, and light again, diffused. Red and blue neon flashes above his head. A feeling of motion; a moving vehicle. A siren barely penetrating the buzzing in his ears. Pain.

"Dr. Wilson!" He tried to focus, and for a moment he saw Teresa's brown eyes holding his. Then she was truly gone, and the EMT was staring down at him.

"Come on, doc, stay with us. Hold on, we're nearly there." He spoke into the microphone clipped to the epaulet of his uniform. "You still there?"

Talking to Chase ... must've hit me with ep ... epinephrine ... Even Wilson's thoughts were dizzy.

"How much A positive you got in stock? Yeah? Might want to call P-General for more."

tbc ... 


	3. Chapter 3

House sat, head in his hands, cane across his lap, and waited. 

It was all he could do; Cuddy had made that abundantly clear. She'd been standing at the Emergency entrance, knowing it was the first and only place he would go.

"He's alive," had been the first thing she had said, and those two simple words had stopped him in his tracks, left him leaning on his cane and desperate with hope.

"I want to see him."

"Not now. He's still in the ER."

He had tried to push past her. "I still want to see him."

To his utter astonishment, she had blocked his path and wouldn't move. "Cuddy!"

"I said _not now!_ Listen to me, House. Fully half the ER staff is in there, working on just one thing -- saving Wilson. You haven't been an ER doc in years; Chase works this rotation every week and is the best intensivist we've got." Her voice softened as she took in House's anxiety and worry, and she held his gaze, willing him to trust her. "Let him -- let them -- do their jobs. I'll see you're notified as soon as anything changes."

He'd looked into her eyes, weighing the promise there, and after a long moment nodded and stepped back.

"I know he's your friend." Her tone was calming and gentle. "He's my friend too, and my Head of Oncology. There are so many lives he can still save, but we need to save his first."

House hadn't answered. He'd turned away, towards the row of chairs nearby.

Now he sat and waited. And remembered ...

_In House's estimation of the mind game he called Push Jimmy's Buttons, this version was pretty mild. Probably a three. There were still a few beers somewhere in the kitchen; he knew that. The question was, could he convince Wilson otherwise?_

_"I thought you bought a case just last week!"_

_"All gone, Jimmy. I think Steve McQueen drank the last one. Your turn to make a beer run."_

_"Come on, House ... are you sure?" James stood looking at him, his head cocked in that questioning way he had._

_"Yep," House replied. "It's your turn because I went last time. That's how taking turns works."_

_Wilson frowned. "Somehow I don't remember it that way."_

_"Selective memory, Jimmy. Gotta watch out for that. Here ..." He'd picked up James's car keys from the coffeetable and tossed them to him. "Sooner you go the faster you're back."_

_Wilson had shrugged on his coat, still shaking his head._

_"And get the good stuff!" House had yelled after him. "None of that cheap piss you usually buy!"_

_The only response from James had been an amused snort and a half-wave as he went out the door._

_He didn't see House sitting back, a knowing smile on his face. Oh, this was just too easy._

Yeah, easy to send your best (_only_) friend walking unawares into the middle of a fucked-up armed robbery.

A wave of self-loathing twisted his gut, and he swallowed back the sickness.

He didn't know how long he'd been sitting, lost in thought. Long enough for his leg to start up again; he took his cane in one hand and used the other to try and head off the developing cramp.

"House?"

He hadn't even heard Chase approaching. The Australian doctor was obviously exhausted and House motioned for him to sit. He gave him a moment as Chase leaned back, stretching his muscles; he knew the younger man had been on his feet the entire time.

Chase cleared his throat.

"Well. Here's what we've got. Dr. Wilson was shot twice. First bullet through the right lung, deflected off the third rib. X-ray shows it stopped a centimeter from the right ventricle after grazing the vena cava."

He took a deep breath and continued.

"Second bullet into the abdomen, extensive injuries to the liver, spleen, large and small intestine, and bowel. Those small bullets do the greatest damage when they're tumbling through the body. Assuming he lives, he's going to have one hell of a septic infection, so we're already starting massive doses of Ampicillin."

Chase stopped talking, suddenly afraid he had said too much. House hadn't moved; his ice-blue eyes holding Robert in their gaze, commanding him to go on.

"Weapon was a 9mm Glock, probably a G19. Dr. Wilson's very lucky -- the other victims were all pronounced at the scene. Still, he's had a blood loss of at least twenty percent, maybe more. His heart stopped in the ambulance."

House blinked at last and looked away. Chase had spoken in clipped tones unconsciously adopted from the police officers who frequented the Emergency section of the hospital; House had noticed the pattern recently and was just waiting for the Aussie to accidentally call a patient a perp. He hoped Foreman was there when it happened.

"And now?" he asked, the harsh voice he often used with his Fellows replaced by a softer tone.

"Critical, still bleeding internally. We'll be taking him up to surgery in a few minutes -- I thought you might want to see him before then."

House tapped his cane on the floor.

"That ... would work," he said gruffly.

Chase hid a small smile behind his hand as House rose slowly, painfully from his chair and started towards the ER.

"He may not be conscious," Chase called after him.

House kept walking.

An Emergency Room was never quiet. Even when there were no patients, no doctors and nurses fighting to keep death at bay -- the brightly-lit space seemed to hum with anticipation, awaiting the next crisis.

Wilson lay on the bed in the center of the room, a pale blue hospital blanket covering his nakedness. Tubes snaked in and out of his body, and electronic monitors beeped at attention. He'd been intubated, and House could see the blanket rise and fall with each of James's slow, shallow breaths.

A wheeled stool was nearby, and House snagged it with his cane, rolling it close to Wilson. He sat down carefully, favoring his leg, and looked at his friend.

The Boy Wonder Oncologist looked even more boyish; his face pale, eyes closed, he resembled a youth lost in dreaming slumber. Chestnut hair was mussed and out of place, and House reached up and carefully brushed it away. Wilson's right hand, still speckled with his own dried blood, had fallen slightly to the side. House took it in his own, holding it with the tenderness of a man handling a baby bird fallen from the nest.

James's hand was dry and cold, and House held it palm-down between his own, gently moving his top hand over it in a soothing pattern.

"Jimmy," House whispered, and found there was a catch in his throat._ Supposed to keep these places allergen-free,_ he thought. He tried again. "Jimmy, you were just supposed to buy beer, not wind up on CNN. What the hell were you doing?"

Wilson didn't move, and House bent over, a painful chasm opening in his chest. He rested his forehead on his (James's) hand.

"Shit," he breathed. "I'm ... sorry. It's my fault. I shouldn't have made you go. So stupid."

His eyes were watering badly now, and he lifted one hand to swipe at them.

James's hand twitched. House looked up, startled.

Wilson's eyes were open. Brown stared into blue.

House swallowed. "Hey," he said softly. James's eyes were dazed and glassy; House wasn't sure how much he was really comprehending or would even remember, but he kept talking.

"Y'know, you're scaring the hell out of everybody around here. Cuddy's become a dominatrix and Chase thinks he's a cop. All we need is Cameron and Foreman to show up and we'll throw a get-well party." _Did I just say get-well party? Holy crap._

Wilson looked at him, then weakly squeezed House's hand. House found himself blinking rapidly. _Too much dust ... as soon as Jimmy's out of here I'm going to ream out the cleaning crew of this place._

It was at that moment that Chase reappeared. Sizing up the situation, he quickly decided that discretion was the better part of valor.

"Dr. Wilson!" he said heartily.

Wilson closed his eyes, exhausted. House glared at Chase, who took a cautious step back. Lowering his voice, he continued.

"Surgery's just about ready." He glanced down at their hands. "Um ... Dr. House ... if you'd like, you can accompany Dr. Wilson upstairs."

James's grip tightened.

It seemed to take forever as House limped slowly beside Wilson's bed, into the elevator and up to OR 4. They paused at the double doors to the surgery, letting the orderlies and nurses sweep past them.

House leaned down, his mouth next to James's ear. _This is important, don't screw it up._

"Remember what I said? Bros before hoes, Jimmy." He spoke slowly, enunciating every word, hoping James could understand. He paused, wanting to say more (_so much more to say_), but all that came out was, "I'll be here when you wake up."

Another, much weaker squeeze of the hand by Wilson; then his grip loosened and he was borne away into the OR.

House stood still, leaning heavily on his cane, and looked down at the hand that had so recently held Wilson's.

Flakes of dried blood dotted his palm and fingers. He started to clean it off, then stopped. _Leave it. Use it to remind myself what a useless prick of a best friend I am._

House took a seat in the surgery observation balcony, easing himself down, trying to remember the last time he'd taken a Vicodin. _Hours ago. Too many_. Reaching into his coat pocket, he retrieved the pill bottle but found himself fumbling to open it. A pair of familiar hands took it from him.

Cuddy, sitting next to him.

She opened the bottle easily, shook out two pills, and offered them to him. "What?" she said at his expression. "You need them. Don't worry; I'll ride you about it later."

"Wish you'd ride me now; give us both a thrill," House said, but he was not at his best for their usual sharp banter and they both knew it. "What are you doing here anyway?"

She laughed; a short, humorless sound. "Standing orders. I get notified whenever one of my doctors comes to work in an ambulance." She looked away for a moment, then continued. "I tried to call Wilson's parents. Turns out they're on an Alaskan cruise. They're trying to connect with a flight out of Vancouver or Seattle, but there's no way they'll be here tomorrow. Today. Whatever." She stopped, rubbing her eyes in exhaustion. "I did manage to talk to his brother. He's driving in from Piscataway, but won't be here until morning."

House nodded; Jonathan Wilson had left the corporate world a few years ago and now taught at Rutgers.

Silence. Cuddy seemed to be waiting for him to say something.

"And?"

Lisa looked at him steadily. "You're his physician of record, House. Are you prepared to make decisions?"

House turned away, staring down into the surgical theatre. "No decisions to be made. He's going to live."

It seemed House would be proved horribly wrong when the crisis came in the fifth hour of surgery.

Cuddy had left to take care of administrative duties; as much as she wanted to stay, she was still Dean of Medicine and had a hospital to run. Today that would be complicated by the additional presence of television reporters and news trucks; as the sole survivor of what had been almost instantly labeled "The WaWa Massacre", Wilson's proverbial fifteen minutes of fame had arrived with a vengeance.

House had put in the earbuds to his iPod, and was listening to a random shuffle. Keeping an eye on the surgery, even he had to admit there was only so much of his best friend's open gut he could look at.

The thoracic surgeon had finished, delicately removing the first bullet lodged so close to James's beating heart. Striking the hard rib bone, it had flattened like a crushed Coke can, and was now about the size of an American dime. He dropped the small projectile into a metal bowl held by the nurse next to him. It made a_ tink!_ sound and slid around the bowl's bottom.

_Well the first days are the hardest days -  
Don't you worry anymore.  
'Cause when life looks like easy street There is danger at your door._

The Grateful Dead. _Uncle John's Band_. House, still listening to the music, leaned forward for a better view.

Dr. Klipspringer had started on the bowel.

_Now it's a buck dancer's choice, my friends .  
Better take my advice.  
You know all the rules by now,  
And the fire from the ice._

It happened so quickly; a bleed that had been hidden all this time was suddenly free. A frighteningly bright red spurt of arterial blood fountained, spraying the surgeons and nurses. The OR sound system was on, and from his position in the balcony House could clearly hear Klipspringer's angry _"Fuck!"._

_It's the same story the crow told me,  
It's the only one he knows.  
Like the morning sun you come And like the wind you go._

"BP and respiration dropping," a nurse shouted. "We need more blood here!" On the operating table, James's heart, trying to adjust to the sudden plunge in pressure, beat slowly and erratically a few more times, then simply stopped.

House stood, pulling the headphones out of his ears.

Flat lines traced across the monitor.

For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, James Wilson was dead.

_Come hear Uncle John's band,  
Playing to the tide .  
Come on along or go alone,  
He's come to take his children home._

tbc ...


	4. Chapter 4

Wilson's heart had stopped, started again, then seemed to hesitate, like a jaywalker trying to dodge across a busy street. 

"Bradycardia," the surgeon barked. "Atropine!"

A nurse slapped the syringe into his palm and he plunged the needle into James's exposed chest, all the while looking down at the abdominal bleed. "Get a clamp on that. Ileocolic artery. And keep pushing blood."

Wilson's face was deathly pale, his heart rhythm dancing on an ever-shrinking stage.

"Come on, Dr. Wilson. Don't leave us now," Klipspringer growled.

_Once upon a time ._  
Wilson opened his eyes.

He wasn't in the convenience store. He didn't think he was in New Jersey. He wondered if he was really anywhere at all.

A bird chirped above his head.

He was in a forest, sitting with his back against a tree. His feet were bare; he wiggled his toes and felt grass tickling his heels. He was wearing an old pair of jeans, and a comfortable old t-shirt that proclaimed "SRV New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival". He'd stolen it from House ...

He remembered seeing House, his eyes suspiciously wet -- saying he was sorry. House? Sorry? James knew he was dreaming again.

Sunlight filtered through the trees, making dappled shadow patterns on the ground. The air was cool and fresh, scented with pine and cedar. Birds sang, and he could hear the skittering feet of small animals in the underbrush.

_Where am I this time?_

"Teresa?"

A soft laugh from nearby. "Not Teresa, Jamie."

A man stood a few feet away, hands at his hips, smiling. Blond hair, falling across his forehead. Pale blue eyes, alight with sardonic humor.

His older brother, David. His lost brother.

David looked nothing at all like the last time Wilson had seen him. No filthy clothes -- his brother was also dressed in blue jeans and a worn (but plain) gray t-shirt. No combat boots from the Army/Navy surplus store -- his brother was barefoot like himself. He didn't smell like a goat -- James remembered David's unwashed stink, and shivered.

He recalled his conversation with Teresa Pasqale and Tyler Orozco in the WaWa convenience store, wondering at the implications.

_Am I dead? Is David dead?_

David smiled, and James knew that familiar, life-affirming grin from when they were little boys, brothers looking out for each other in a WASPy Bergen County suburb.

"What do you think, Jamie? You think I'm dead?"

In a few steps, he had crossed the space between them, and folded his long legs to sit next to Wilson. He leaned in close, eyes narrowing in a pretend-leer. "Well?"

James stared at his brother, looking for ... what? Madness.

_We're dead. The dead know everything._ Teresa's voice, in his head.

David's gaze didn't waver. James took a deep breath, and felt some long-held bond, stretched too far for much too long, break within him.

"Yes. Yes, I think you're dead."

David leaned back, his expression unreadable.

"Rabbits out of hats, Jamie. Rabbits out of hats."

There was nothing else to say for a while.

James remembered.

David, his straw-blond hair and pale blue eyes so different from the rest of the Wilson clan. Fat Uncle Ronnie, joking at every family gathering that there was a Cossack in the Wilson family woodpile, while their dad, Leo, waved his hands in the air, trying to shush him.

David, undeniably brilliant at so young an age, off the charts on the standard IQ tests, unable to express himself, in fights at school, grounded at home, growing more and more unhappy day by day. The frightening diagnosis at sixteen -- prescriptions of ever-more powerful drugs that seemed only to dull his brother to the point of plodding depression.

The last time he'd seen David -- on a filthy street corner in a neighborhood full of bums and broken people, James trying to reach inside his brother just one more time.

David had turned his back; walked away even as James shouted at him to stay.

Now they were here ... but where was _here?_

He leaned his head back against the tree ... _so tired ..._

_More neurons firing. Stupid random associations, caught in a goddamn loop in a brain starved for oxygen. A nightmare I can't wake up from. An event horizon in a string universe, a rock in the fucking timestream ..._

"Let's do the time warp again," David said helpfully. "You left out the Tardis and the holodeck,"

James looked sharply at his brother. David's eyes were innocent of guile.

"What am I doing here? What are_ you _doing here?"

His brother grinned. "You're the big-shot wonder boy -- figure it out for yourself. You've got a little time, if you pay attention."

A spot of color -- Wilson looked down.

David's shirt was different. Royal blue, with "The Clash Akron Civic Center 1982" in garish yellow across the front.

"Cool, huh?" David said, and without James even really seeing it the shirt was different again. Dark green, with "Talking Heads CBGB".

James closed his eyes. "Stop it," he whispered.

Silence, then David's soft voice.

"Jamie, I'm just trying to keep you awake."

Wilson jerked, his head snapping forward. "I _am _awake," he mumbled. _Of course I'm awake -- except I'm dreaming -- or I'm dead -- God, this is so fucking surreal._

"I know it is," David replied. "But you shouldn't go to sleep."

"Why?"

"Because you might dream, and it's not time yet."

_Time for what?_ Wilson wanted to ask, but didn't.

His brother leaned close and reached behind James's right ear. "Abracadabra!" he said, and showed Wilson the gold-colored coin he now held in his fingers. On the face of the coin, a duck-like bird with a thin bill paddled serenely in a woodland lake. It was a loonie -- a Canadian dollar.

Wilson groaned. _Great. I'm stuck in interspatial limbo with the Amazing Kreskin._

David grinned, walking the coin back and forth across the knuckles of his left hand. A magician's trick, but one that House used also to exercise and strengthen his long pianists' fingers.

_House ... he'd been sorry about something ... what was it?_

His brother walked the dollar coin across his hand once more, then caught it on his thumb and flipped it forcefully into the air.

James's eyes followed the golden flash as it rose, flying much higher than it ever should have -- until it disappeared abruptly in a blur of wings and black feathers.

Wilson gasped.

"What was _that?"_

David hadn't even looked up.

"Crow. They like shiny things."

A bird called, a gurgling _konk a ree! _sound close by. James licked his suddenly dry lips._ Red-winged blackbird._ His thoughts were moving very slowly. _Must be a marsh nearby, like when we were kids._

"Right you are. Guess all those "nature" merit badges in Cub Scouts paid off." His brother looked away. "You were always better at that than me."

"I ... I wanted to be a veterinarian."

David smiled.

"I know. Must be why you secretly like Steve McQueen." The smile widened at the look of astonishment on James's face.

"Still think I'm dead?"

It took a long time for Wilson to answer.

"I don't know."

His brother reached out and pulled another loonie from behind James's ear -- his left one this time.

"Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain."

James watched quietly as his brother did magic. He was hesitant to append the word "tricks".

David changed the dollar into a dime, then a copper penny. He laid the penny in the palm of his left hand, closed his hand into a fist, and opened it to reveal a tiny brown egg. He gently covered it with his right hand, then lifted that hand away from the pinfeathered chick on wobbly legs. One more pass, and an adult bird looked at them, black eyes like tiny buttons. The tail stuck almost straight up from its small body, and the feathers were a soft russet brown.

_House wren,_ James thought sleepily.

"Yes. Stay awake, Jamie," his brother said softly. "Work with me here."

The wren cocked its head at them and took flight.

"What now?" Wilson asked. "Straw into gold? Water into wine?" It was getting harder and harder to keep his eyes open.

"Jamie. You need to talk."

James squinted, trying to follow this conversational turn.

"Talk about what?"

There was a look of exasperation on his brother's face. "Not what -- _him. _You two need to talk."

"Why?"

"Damn it, Jamie, don't be so dense! You were like this as a kid, avoiding the subject all the time, never facing anything head-on."

There was a short silence. When David continued, his voice was gentle.

"These are _your_ dreams, Jamie. You're partly right; your brain is telling itself stories, casting shadows on a cave wall while the rest of your autonomic nervous system takes a little vacation. You know why you were in that convenience store, and it had nothing to do with a beer run."

He looked steadily at James, blue eyes into brown.

"You're playing games with each other. Constantly, so you never have to tell the other person your true feelings. You're both leading half-lives -- emotional cripples who can't see the truth even when they look in the mirror."

David's voice was very low.

"You don't want to end up like me, do you?"

His brother had conjured another dollar, and was rolling it across his long (_pianist_) fingers.

"I missed everyone at the end. I regretted all the things I'd never said. You think I enjoyed that?"

James felt his throat tightening, and then there were tears and he couldn't stop them.

"Am I dead, Jamie?"

"No." James was crying openly now. "You're not dead, you're up here," putting both hands on his head, "you're up here and you'll _never be dead."_

His big brother pulled him close as Wilson's racking sobs shook his body.

"Shhhhhh, it's okay," he whispered, and James felt David's warm breath next to his ear. "Just remember, bros before hoes, Jimmy. Third time's the charm." A gentle brush of lips against his cheek, and he was gone.

Wilson sat under the tree, tears drying on his face. He was exhausted beyond measure.

A flutter of wings, and James looked for the wren, but it was the crow next to him, holding something in its beak. The large bird studied him for a moment, then took a couple of awkward crow-steps forward.

James held out his hand, and the black bird dropped something small and metallic into it.

Wilson looked at the object closely. It was a jagged, lumpy disc, heavy for its size and barely the circumference of an American dime. It took him a moment to identify it as a bullet that had taken a rough trip through a human body.

The crow took another hop-step and opened its beak.

"_Blip!_" it said. "_Blip! Blip! Blipblipblipblip blip blip blip blip blip blip ..."_

"Come on, Dr. Wilson. Don't leave us now," Klipspringer growled.

The OR monitors burst into life, and the surgeon relaxed just a bit. James's heart was beating slowly but steadily.

"All right, then," he said, addressing the unconscious man on the table. "Glad you decided to stay with us for awhile."

Klipspringer took a step back and grimaced as his foot slid.

"Okay, everybody ... careful steps until we can get the floor cleaned up." He looked down. "It's a little slippery in here at the moment."

Glancing up at the observation balcony, he saw Dr. House there and gave a little thumbs-up sign.

A curt nod was his only response.

_Asshole,_ Klipspringer thought, and turned back to the job at hand. _No wonder Dr. Wilson is his only friend._

In the balcony, House slowly lowered himself into his seat again, having just lived through the longest eight seconds of his life. He drew a deep breath and rested his head in his hands, trying to wrestle his emotions back under control.

Something glinting, by his right shoe. He picked it up and rubbed off the floor dirt and lint to reveal the regal profile of Elizabeth II.

Someone had dropped a Canadian nickel.


	5. Chapter 5

With Dr. Klipspringer's surgery completed the second battle had begun. 

Cameron and Foreman watched through the glass walls of the Intensive Care Unit as Wilson's body burned with fever from the septic infection. The Ampicillin wasn't working fast enough; they were adding Vancomycin and an older antibiotic, colistimethate, to the mix -- the more the merrier, House had said. His knuckles had been white where he gripped his cane, as if this anchor were the sole means of keeping him in control of the situation.

James's temperature was still climbing and time was slipping away.

"Did you hear about the proposal the Oncology department presented to Dr. Cuddy?" Cameron's voice was soft and pensive.

"You mean the one to have the Department Head position rotate between senior staff until Wilson gets back?" Foreman shook his head. "Yeah, I heard. House thinks they're crazy."

Cameron frowned.

"Why? It's not a bad idea -- I understand Cuddy's giving it serious consideration."

Foreman watched as a vented, sedated Wilson moved restlessly in his bed.

"Oh, you know House," he replied. "He doesn't think anybody ever does anything good except to gain some advantage. He said if he ever gets himself shot, he hoped we'd claw each other to pieces for a promotion over his cold, dead body."

Cameron blinked, then turned away from the glass.

They had their own jobs to do. There was nothing anyone could do but wait.

House waited in his office, throwing his ball and catching it on the bounce.

He'd been doing this since James had come out of surgery. That had been hours ago; his hands were tired but still he threw the ball and caught it, over and over.

Wilson's parents hadn't yet arrived -- their flight was somewhere over the Canadian Rockies at the moment -- but Wilson's brother had. House had met the younger man before, at James's weddings and other family gatherings, but this morning -- weary with stress and worry, Jonathan Wilson's dark hawk eyes had so resembled his older brother's that for a moment House had been speechless. Foreman had had to step in and begin the conversation.

In the end, Jonathan waved off the flood of information and simply said, "Do whatever you need to do." He'd looked at House. "I know you're his best friend. You'll take care of him."

The knife had twisted in House's gut.

The ball bounced, and he missed. Letting his head drop, House stretched his legs out onto the nearby ottoman._ Just a few minutes,_ he thought. _Just a quick nap to recharge ..._

He slept.

_Once upon a time ._  
Wilson opened his eyes, and groaned.

When is this going to _STOP?_

The WaWa convenience store. Two customers and three men in ski masks were staring at him, and he immediately identified the time period as approximately five minutes before everything had turned to shit.

He remembered the initial bewilderment he'd felt (_ski masks? in the summer?_) and the surge of adrenalin and nausea that followed when he realized the men were armed.

His legs were frozen in place; he seemed powerless to do anything but relive these moments. Past and future time fell away; there was only now.

One of the gunmen lunged towards him. Grabbing Wilson's shoulder, he shoved him in the direction of the other two customers. A young woman (_Teresa Pasqale_), her eyes wide with terror, clutched a Tombstone-brand frozen pizza; the teenaged boy (_Tyler Orozco_) beside her had a large bag of potato chips in his hand.

The three hostages stood, huddled together, as the store clerk opened the cash register. No guns were pointed at the young man -- it was obvious he had been a partner in the hold-up all along.

Wilson carefully kept his hands in plain sight; his heart was pounding and his mouth bone-dry. The gunman guarding the customers seemed to be extremely nervous, shifting from foot to foot and pulling at his ski mask. James watched with a fascinated horror.

_Please don't take it off please don't take it off please don't ..._

The gunman took it off.

A tiny whimper escaped Wilson's throat as his legs threatened to give way. Teresa moaned beside him.

_He doesn't care if we see -- he's going to kill us anyway._

Vision blurring, he tried to blink away the threatening tears and looked around. Colors seemed brighter, sounds louder -- all his senses heightened, taking everything in, the adrenaline in his body producing a feeling of dizzying hyper-reality.

_This is crazy. My death, in a friggin' convenience store. _His breath was coming in shaky gasps. _Why me?_ There was no answer, not that he really expected one.

_Hope I don't fucking piss myself._

He tried to stand a little straighter, fighting to stay calm. _I haven't really prayed since I was a bar mitzvah boy, _he thought, _but if I'm going to die I can still do this._

Summoning the ancient words from his childhood, he edged closer to Teresa, preparing to take one more step.

A wave of heat washed over him, and he gasped, the prayer falling away.

House was beside him, next to Teresa.

Wilson stared. House looked at him; wide blue eyes locked into brown, he appeared to be just as surprised as Wilson. The gunman seemed not to notice the extra hostage.

_Not real,_ James thought frantically. _This isn't real it's not happening not real what the hell is HAPPENING?_

Time was standing still.

"Jimmy," House said. "I need to tell you. There was beer in the refrigerator."

_God, it was hot in here._

"What?"

"Beer," House repeated patiently. "In the refrigerator."

Wilson made a helpless little sound.

"There was beer," he said.

House nodded.

_So hot ..._

"I didn't need to come here."

House shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said quietly.

"Your goddamn mind games," James said softly, as the full realization of what House had done dawned on him. A quick blaze of anger replaced fear, and he stared at House with narrowed eyes.

"You fucking son of a bitch."

_Third time's the charm._ Teresa's voice, David's voice, together inside his head. Time restarted with a jolt.

There was a crash from the front of the store -- something large had fallen or been knocked over.

_So HOT ... burning ..._

Their guard (_Big Jay_) jumped. His gun went off, the bullet striking Tyler Orozco in the chest. The teenager's body spasmed at the impact, a look of pure surprise on his face. He tried to say something, but couldn't get it out and collapsed on the floor.

"God _damn_", the gunman screamed, panicking and squeezing off more shots into the floor, the ceiling ... "fuckin' _A!_"

_I shouldn't have been here. I didn't have to be here, _James thought. He was beyond angry. His rage was a furious, all-consuming firestorm. Teresa was screaming. The iron reek of blood filled his nostrils. Everything was speeding up, discrete moments piling together and rushing into the past.

Some part of his mind not overwhelmed by the flooding sensory input tried to get his attention.

_This. Isn't. Real._

Wilson's own words from long ago, echoing in his head. _... this stupid, screwed-up friendship ..._

The heat was almost unbearable.

Birdsongs, at the edge of his hearing. In his hand, a crow's black feather.

The gun muzzle came down, swinging towards the remaining hostages.

_Enough. Real or not, it stops here._

The voices in his head died away like a radio station moving out of range, except for one. _Is this worth it? Has it ever been?_

"Fuck it," he said, and stepped protectively in front of House, just as (_how many hours ago?_) he had stepped in front of Teresa with the desperate hope of saving at least one life this disastrous night.

The gunman fired.

_A wave of whining electricity; his back arching like a hunter's bow at full draw._

Whatever world this was shattering into a million glittering pieces, a funhouse mirror crashing down.

House jerked awake.

_What the fucking hell was that?_

He'd been somewhere with Wilson, there had been men with guns, a screaming woman ...

His desk phone rang and his pager went off, simultaneously.

tbc ...


	6. Chapter 6

Chase was waiting for him at the entrance to the ICU, blocking the door. He was trying to explain something; but the roaring in House's ears was too loud and the only words that penetrated were the ones he'd been dreading, the ones that left him broken and ruptured inside. Seizure. Alarm. _Dead._

His heart was pounding as he forcibly shoved the younger doctor out of the way and limped quickly into the Intensive Care Unit.

Doctors stepped aside and nurses scattered at his approach as he neared Wilson's bed. Electronic monitors continued to measure and beep, mechanically ignorant of the distinctions of human care, human emotions -- there were other patients here, after all.

_This is how it ends, _he thought, _after everything, this is it, a stupid senseless death and life just goes on, nobody even turns around. Auden was so fucking right ..._

He looked down at his friend, bracing himself for the end. A sudden wave of dizziness threatened to send him crashing to the floor.

Wilson was pale and gaunt, face drawn with pain even under sedation. His hair was damp, stuck to his forehead, and House could smell the rank odor of copious sweat rising from the sickbed.

Sweat. Jimmy was ...

"... alive."

Chase, beside him.

"He's alive, House. Okay? Not dead." The Australian doctor paused, drew a deep breath. "Dr. Wilson's fever spiked suddenly, reached 106.3. He seized, a grand mal. We were ready to pull everything, dump him in an ice bath." Chase stopped. House hadn't looked at him. "I had a nurse page you. I thought ... I'm sorry, I should have waited. It was a false alarm; his temp's dropping."

House's head turned, slowly, and Chase saw the question in his eyes.

"104. Going down slowly, but going down."

House nodded, and looking back down, realized he was gripping the bed's guardrail so tightly his knuckles were white. He let go, and lowered himself very carefully into the chair next to the bed.

A pair of nurses gave Wilson a cooling sponge bath and replaced the strategically positioned ice-gel packs in the bed. House closed his eyes for a moment at the sight of James's abused body, bruised and scarred from the bullets and surgery. He leaned forward and took Jimmy's right hand, holding it gently. It was hot and slick with perspiration. Wilson stirred, turning his head restlessly against the vent. House eased closer.

"Jimmy. Hush, it's okay." He brushed some of the sweat-damp hair away. "You're safe now."

James relaxed, the lines in his face easing, his respiration evening out.

House sat there the rest of the day, watching as Wilson's temperature continued to fall. As more days passed, no one dared tell him when visiting hours were over.

Wilson opened his eyes.

A woman's voice, fading away in his head ... she'd been telling him something familiar, the first words to a story he'd heard many times before. He tried to retrieve it, but whatever had been there was gone.

He blinked, and recognized his surroundings as the hospital ICU. He was as tired as he'd ever been in his life, and his throat was sore and a little raw. _Vent ... I was on a vent._ It was very hard to concentrate, his thoughts seeming to drift slowly through a glacial fog.

An IV line led to his left arm, and for a few minutes he simply watched the soothing, rhythmic drip of the liquid from the bag.

It took him a while to realize another person was there; a man's head, face hidden in folded arms on the right side of Wilson's bed. Brown hair, unkempt, showing signs of early gray.

House.

James stared at him for a long time, the minutes stretching away.

_His fault,_ one part of his mind murmured. _All this, his fault. You could be dead._

Another part of his mind considered that, examined it, turned it over.

_But I'm not. Am I?_

It was a huge effort to move his right hand just a few inches. He touched the top of House's head, curling his fingers into the soft hair.

"Hey," he whispered.

His friend stirred, then lifted his head.

Exhaustion almost as deep as Wilson's had carved deep lines on House's face. Unshaven, his usual stubble was approaching a full beard; his normally clear blue eyes were red and swollen.

They looked at each other for a long moment.

"Christ, you look like shit," James whispered.

House blinked, sniffed, blinked some more, then a grin broke over his face. The weariness fell away and his eyes brightened, taking on the deep blue tones of the sky after a great storm has passed.

"Hey," he said, "don't be taking the name of my Lord and Savior in vain."

Wilson was too tired to even shake his head.

"House ... the name of your savior is the Marquis de Sade."

And with that he was out again, the trauma of surgery, the drugs in the I.V., and sheer exhaustion overwhelming him. He was not awake to see House's head drop, or hear the odd coughing sounds coming from him.

Others watching might think the man was crying, but everyone knew the misanthropic Dr. House didn't care enough about anyone (_not even Dr. Wilson_) to do that.

Weeks later Wilson was discharged into House's care. James didn't object. It was easier this way, and besides, he wasn't sure if he ever wanted to be alone again in his life.

His brother had gone back to his teaching life at Rutgers; his parents had stayed a week in a nearby hotel until he'd persuaded them to go home to their Florida condo. His father had been particularly hard-struck at the possibility of losing another son, and James had found himself in the unaccustomed position of offering comfort to his own parents. He was secretly relieved to see them go.

The news media hung onto the story of the WaWa Massacre for a few more weeks, but when Dr. James Wilson proved to be singularly unforthcoming about his experiences, the headlines faded away.

House took more cases, tormented his Fellows, and terrorized the general population. Life at Princeton-Plainsboro returned to normal.

For both men though, the past is never past and time has shifted into the eternal present. The crows are gathering.

Foreman's full neurological workup reveals Wilson's partial loss of hearing in his right ear. The same drugs that saved his life have left him with this small, everyday reminder of mortality. James takes the news stoically and schedules follow-up appointments with Audiology; House, attempting to elicit some reaction from his friend, takes to calling it his "George Bailey Ear." Normally this would be very funny -- House referring to his disability with the name of the hero character from the film _It's A Wonderful Life_, but Wilson doesn't think very much these days about funny things. He's tried to throw himself back into his career, working half-days, but he is exhausted all the time, and finds it hard to take very much interest or pleasure in the things about him. James's movements are slow and tentative, and he flinches at loud noises. Sometimes it's more than a flinch.

The first time Wilson hears a car backfire after The Incident (that's the name he's chosen for it; bland and indirect, it labels but doesn't define) he is out walking with House, on the athletic track near the hospital.

It's a surprisingly loud bang! and for a moment House doesn't realize his friend is no longer at his side. He stops and looks back. Wilson is off the tarmac and on the ground, clutching at the grass and doing his best to flatten himself into as small a (target) profile as possible. His breath is coming hard and fast; his whole body trembles with the severity of the fight or flight reaction.

House walks slowly back and lowers himself carefully to sit on the tarmac. After a few moments, Wilson stops shaking. After a few more minutes, he sits up and buries his face in his hands. House puts his hand on Wilson's back, between the shoulder blades, and leaves it there. In a while they both stand up; James first, helping House to his feet, and they continue their walk. Neither mentions what just happened, but the grass stains that never quite come out of Jimmy's lab coat are a silent reminder.

If the days are bad, the night-times are much worse; Wilson's dreams jolt him upright, the whine of a trapped animal in his throat. He's back in the convenience store, everyone looking at him; Teresa Pasqale is trying to tell him something but her lips move without sound. Sometimes House is there, other times it's Chase or even Dr. Klipspringer next to him. Sometimes there's no one there but him and Big Jay, and they stare at each other until Big Jay raises his gun and shoots him in the head, and in those dreams he falls a long way down until he wakes, bathed in sweat.

He's dreamed once of waking in the ICU; House beside him, eating a pomegranate, mouth and fingers red and slick with the sticky juice. House leans forward and offers him the fruit, a feral grin on his face. "Want some?" he says. His own screams awaken him from that one.

The symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder are clear, yet House isn't quite sure how to handle it -- the role of caregiver is an unfamiliar one to him. His nursing technique consists of saying "Here, eat this" as he plops a bowl of soup in front of James, or "Sit up, gotta take your vitals." Jimmy always seems to be looking somewhere else these days, into the middle distance as if his life depends on something he's trying to remember.

He takes Wilson to temple. They sit all the way in the back and let the ancient words wash over them. The cantor is a young woman and sings beautifully, but James isn't sure these days what he believes, and they don't go back.

Sometimes when they watch TV, House puts his arm around Wilson's shoulders; a surprisingly gentle move that sometimes brings a response, sometimes doesn't. Either way it's okay. The apartment is quieter, too. Steve McQueen runs an eternal circle in his wheel. Occasionally House plays the piano, or, more rarely, the guitar, and that seems to bring some peace to James's soul. They're just existing, though. They talk, but their conversations are about patients, cases, the weather. They dance around the real subject, a waltz of prescribed movements that spins them both away from the truth. What they don't say could fill galaxies.

One month after The Incident, as House hovers protectively nearby, he meets with the parents of Tyler Orozco. Wilson understands that as the last person to see their son alive, Mr. and Mrs. Orozco are hoping he can offer some sort of closure to their grief.

"Did he say anything to you? In the store?" The question is from Mr. Orozco, and James blinks.

"No," he says. "He didn't say anything. None of us did."

His empathetic skills have deserted him, and he sits quietly as the Orozcos weep uncontrollably. Afterwards, driving home, House yells at him, exhorting him to feel again, to feel something, _anything_. James looks straight ahead, eyes searching that mysterious middle distance.

Two months after The Incident, there's another call. This time it's Angelo Pasqale.

Teresa's husband has seen edited versions of the store surveillance tapes, never aired in the news stories; had seen how a young doctor had stepped in front of his wife even as murder was done around them; had seen the doctor fall and then ... the tapes always stopped at that point, before his wife also fell, dying. He too wants what Tyler Orozco's family sought.

House argues against it; Wilson should be seeing a therapist, not victims' families, but James overrules him.

They sit at the kitchen table with untouched cups of coffee, House a discreet distance away but watching their visitor's every move. Angelo Pasqale is a big man, Merchant Marine tattoos on his muscular forearms. No one says anything; the silence stretches on and on.

_Great,_ House thinks with no small level of disgust. _This is going to turn out just like the Orozcos._

"She was my life," Angelo says suddenly, his voice loud, hands clenching into fists.

From his vantage point, House sees Wilson's eyes widen in surprise, then drop to the tabletop and stay there.

_Shit, that's it. This Pasqale guy's outta here. Not going to let James get hurt again ..._

House starts to rise, but Wilson shakes his head almost imperceptibly; House sinks back into his chair, an unhappy frown on his face.

The question they're expecting comes a moment later.

"Did she ... say anything to you? There, at the store?" Angelo's voice is gruff and hesitant.

James's right hand comes up, covering his eyes as if looking at something he can't bear to see.

"Anything ... anything at all ..."

Wilson takes a deep breath and slowly lowers his hand; he looks at House for a long moment, dark eyes holding the answering blue gaze, then turns his attention back to Angelo as House waits for the inevitable disappointment.

"She said ... she was sorry she didn't tell you she loved you that morning."

The kitchen is silent. James can feel House's eyes boring into the side of his head.

_Now where did that come from?_ House thinks, and narrows his eyes at Wilson, who pointedly ignores him.

This time it is Angelo Pasqale who drops his gaze, studying the tabletop, trying to catch his breath in the emotional undertow.

"Okay," he sighs. "I had to ask, y'know?" His big hands clench and relax, in an unconscious, rhythmic manner. "I wanted to say ... thank you."

Wilson, caught off-guard, can only stare.

"Thanks for trying to do something for her. I'm ... glad ... she was at least with somebody who cared."

James lays both hands, palms down, on the table, as if afraid it will suddenly start levitating.

"I didn't do anything," he says. "I didn't save anyone. It was just blind chance I was even there."

House flinches, but Angelo Pasqale shakes his head.

"No," he says. "Teresa always said there was no such thing as chance, that if people just paid attention, they'd see how things are connected."

He looks at James.

"She was smart that way," and then both men's eyes well with tears. House is the odd man out, wondering how it's come to this: his best friend and a complete stranger, crying in his kitchen.

The next morning Wilson leaves a note and drives to the Jersey Shore.

He walks along the beach for hours, watching and listening to the tide as gulls wheel above him and sandpipers leave tiny footprints along the shoreline. He thinks about the people he knew and the people he didn't -- about his brother and Teresa and Tyler, Pizza Woman and Chip Boy.

He remembers fragments of his dreams from that lost weekend and wonders how much of it was real, or if it was all just a gigantic clusterfuck by his own subconscious.

He thinks about the sharp, flat cracks of gunshots, and their concentrating effects upon the human mind.

He wonders about redemption, and if it really exists or is just another lie people tell themselves to get through the day.

Most of all, his thoughts turn to forgiveness, and the deceptive gift it offers as both liberation and debt; head and tail of the same coin, tossed every day.

_We're dead. The dead know everything._

_Third time's the charm._

_Abracadabra._

The tide is going out.

In the Volvo, he slips his prescription sunglasses on and pops an old CD in the player.

_The walls are built up, stone by stone,  
The fields divided one by one.  
And the train conductor says,  
"Take a break, Driver 8 -- Driver 8, take a break -  
We've been on this shift too long"_

The sound of R.E.M. fills the car, and James turns up the volume. His brother David had bought this album for him, years ago, when records were still vinyl discs.

_And the train conductor says,  
"Take a break, Driver 8 -- Driver 8, take a break We can reach our destination, but we're still a ways away"_

He points the car west, toward home, and steps on the gas.

He and House have a lot to talk about, and it's about time they got started.

The End

June 22nd - July 27th, 2006 ... _on ne voit bien qu'avec le cœur. L'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux._


End file.
